Phantom
by IAmInMyOwnLittleWorld
Summary: What if Erik really was a ghost?


**What if Erik really _was _a ghost...? A ghost many had thought to had seen, but whenever they focused on him, he disappeared, most of the time? A ghost that fell for a certain soprano singer...**

**It's a Requiem Mask style Erik, but if you haven't read that, then it's kinda like Leroux Erik.  
**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

I'm not sure how long I've been dead. It could be anywhere from two years to twenty years, wandering the earth. In search of nothing, and finding nothing.

I'm a ghost, a phantom, whatever you prefer. I can go from somewhat solid to transparent in a few moments flat. I could project my voice, but I didn't see a point mostly since no one would listen anyways.

Why I was stuck on this pitiful world, I don't know. Perhaps, in life, I was a horrible man and needed punishment. I wouldn't know, I can hardly remember my life.

Sure, faint glimpses of a mother and father, a happy yet worried expression on their face. A flash of a tormented child at a freak show, who I assumed was me. A glimpse of a teenager with a white mask on, covering his entire face. The sound of singing sweeter than the trilling of a bird, and much sadder. And a roaring gunshot. Lastly, a name drilled into my bones. My name.

Erik.

Yes, that as certainly my human name, I could sense it. It means "Always Ruler". I doubt I was ever a ruler in my human life. From what I can tell from my few memories, I probably didn't have much a happy life.

Maybe it's a good thing I don't remember.

I do know what I looked like when I died. If I go near a mirror, I can see my reflection, oddly enough.

I seem to have died in my late twenties, judging by how aged I look. I have raven black hair, cropped short, unlike most of the men who have long ponytails of hair. My skin, as the result of being a phantom, has turned translucent, but you can still see a good outline if I allow you to. I have a very thin frame, and also very tall. Perhaps I was underfed, I'll never know.

It seems I was killed in a white collar shirt and plain black pants. The shirt is stained a faded red right above my heart, which explains the noise of the gunshot I remember.

I also wear a off-white mask covering all but my mouth and eyes(which are bright yellow and shine in the dark). When I take it off, my face is not normal. It's actually rather horrendous. Imagine a skeleton with translucent skin and you've got me. Dark baggy eyelids like I never slept as a human, and no nose. Just a hole where a nose should be.

And lastly, a pair of wings. They're my pride and joy. Glossy white and baby-soft, like a dove's. They let me believe I'm an angel instead of the pathetic ghost I know I am inside. I like to think they match my voice, which, not to brag, is also quite nice. Perhaps one of the best singers of my time, whatever my time was.

But enough about me. You came here for a story, and I shall give you a story.

Once in my wanderings, I came to Paris, France. The sights, the smells, everything was so different than any other place in the world. People everywhere were talking, singing, running, and crying. Everywhere something was happening, and it intrugied me.

But the thing that caught my attention the most was an intricately designed opera house, which looked fairly new. I decided to have a peek inside.

To my luck, an opera was preforming at that moment. I floated to the only free place, box 5, and became fixated on this opera.

The plotline was wonderful, funny and sad at the same time. The only thing that irked me was the lead was as horrible a singer as a toad! . I take that back, the toad could sing better. Sadly, this was enough to ruin the opera for me.

There was a good soprano singer, but she only got one part. The absurdity! How do you sell tickets to an opera when the toad has the lead and the angel has a minor part?!

I decided to do something about this, this sad little opera house. It needed my help to become a grand world-known palace of the music known as opera. Besides, what else did I have to do? Roam about for another decade? No!

That was the day I decided to become the Opera Ghost.


End file.
